Mistress of Shadows
by Elluxion
Summary: Before she knows what she’s doing, Ghealdan Jorj draws Hermione into the darkest of all darkness -- to raise Ghealdan’s dead lover. When Draco is entrapped, it turns into a deadly web: and there’s no way to tell who’s the spider pulling the thread
1. To Scrawl A Story of Death

**Mistress of Shadows  
Chapter One: To Scrawl a Story of Death  
_Written by Elluxion_**

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**This one is for all the mothers out there -- especially mine. Happy Mothers' Day!**

**Title:** Mistress of Shadows 

**Written by:** Elluxion 

**Date:** 11th May 

**Genre:** Drama/Romance (with tinges of action/adventure and horror) 

**Shippings:** Draco/Hermione 

**Summary:** Before she knows what she's doing, Ghealdan Jorj draws Hermione into the darkest of all darkness: to raise Ghealdan's dead lover. When Draco is entrapped, it turns into a deadly web: and there's no way to tell who's the spider pulling the threads. 

**Notes:** This might be a TAD confuzzling, but things shall straighten out pretty quickly. ;) Chapter One is unnaturally long but the chapters will shorten. Hope you like! Onwards! Onegai, review!

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"Maybe." 

She rasped the word again, tearing down the corridor, not trying to dissemble the exhaustion and terror on her face. He peered at her, blinked as if he'd never met the girl before. Her dark eyes played over the aged walls, eyes that were once so lighthearted, but now burdened by things she should not have seen. Draco only wished he could have shielded her gaze—always unwavering, though—from some of the magic they'd encountered. But somehow, he knew he didn't want to, either. It had happened too fast, too soon, and against her will, but experiences they'd both shared had turned her from a girl to a woman. 

He didn't bother to answer her, but simply loped down the corridor faster, his longer strides and almost effortless gait putting him in front. The cloak Ghealdan had given her to don flapped behind Hermione as she ran, intricately embroidered with a tangle of creeping vines, Irish green, the same shade of Ghealdan's eyes and his Killamery Cross. The clasp that held the cloak together bit into her throat, leaving in its path a red welt, but Hermione didn't seem to notice. 

They were in the Labyrinth, in the wild maze of stone corridors, running from the Heart of the Labyrinth where they'd faced down an Amphisbaena, a serpent-like creature with heads on either end, tongues flicking, wet with blood—their blood. Behind them were ghostly apparitions, not unlike the Hogwarts ghosts, but draped in hoods and cloaks as if death was tolling. The Shades' ridiculously pallid skin, so white it bordered on blue, flashed at him every time he turned around to mark their progress. If they thought it would frighten him, they were dead wrong. It would take much more than that to rattle Draco Malfoy. 

They were swooping with unbelievable speed now, after them, and with every length of corridor they dashed through, the Shades seemed to gain on them a few feet or so. Hermione's caramel ringlets flashed with a glossy sheen as Draco led her into a hallway off the corridor—and scowled as he realized he'd led them to a dead end. Hermione stumbled and he grabbed at her to keep her from falling, setting her back on her feet. His glower deepened, although now with almost feverish concern at the blood soaking her robes. Concern that perhaps went further than a friend's usual distress. Draco did not want to think about the protectiveness he now felt while battling alongside Hermione, the fear that had gripped him when she was wounded. Childish infatuations had to wait. If they were childish infatuations. It was absurd to think that he loved the girl. _Damn._

Hermione's Bracelet of Clairvoyance humming against her right wrist beamed a thin streak of light ahead of them. It was an exquisite thing, fine chains interlocked together, off which hung emerald teardrops, flaming crescent moons of topaz, and serene sapphire stars alternating with each other. It was an ancient magical artifact, one that helped Hermione at Dreamwalking, at dreaming of the past, the present, and most importantly, the future. The Bracelet did not only serve as a gateway to Dreamwalking—it had mystical purposes that they could only hazard guesses at. 

The Bracelet was not the only artifact they had in possession, and though Hermione was the Child of Lydian, the heir of the Bracelet of Clairvoyance, she was not the only Child present. The Illumine Sword pulsed gently while strapped to Draco's back—Draco being the Child of Denair; he was the only one who could touch the Sword without going mad by the darkness of its history. For now, though, he left the Sword where it was, drawing his wand instead and sending a simple Stunner whirling at one of the more petite Shades fringing the group. 

The spell hit the Shade square in the shoulder; it—or he or she—propelled backwards a trifle before righting itself imperiously and sweeping back to join the group. Draco could almost feel the weight of the eerie phantom's gaze resting on him, radiating cool fury. He gritted his teeth. Stunners hadn't worked on the Amphisbaena. A well-aimed one had severed the serpent-like body into half, and the two… pieces… simply melded back into each other as if nothing had happened! There was no reason why Stunning Spells would work on Shades, now. Rules were different on the plane of the dead. 

Nevertheless, the Shade seemed a hair breathless, a tad weaker from Draco's spell. Another attempt wouldn't hurt. He raised his wand, aimed it at the leader this time. "_Stupefy_!" 

For all the difference it made, Draco might as well have not tried the attack after all. The hex went through the Shade, whistling through this… creature's robes as if nothing inhibited it at all. Hermione drew ragged breath next to him, chilled by the sight—Draco was not feeling too comfortable, himself. Even the Bloody Baron would have felt the effects of that—after finding the Illumine Sword, Draco's magical capacity had doubled, not unlike Hermione, and every blow that came out of that wand of his was much more forceful than when he was still schooling at Hogwarts. 

"It won't work," Hermione murmured next to him almost inaudibly, clearly weakened by the long, gaping wound she had acquired at the Amphisbaena's bite. "It's not powerful enough." She could feel her mouth tighten in annoyance and her heart drum with trepidation. Had they gone so far only to be defeated by five insubstantial Shades—ghosts that weren't quite ghosts? 

She nearly choked as the leader of the Shades, the one that the Stunner had gone through, made as if to pull back its hood. Hermione did not allow herself to pull her gaze away, but keeping it steadfast and trained on the shadows swallowing the Shade's face made her feel like the bottom of her stomach was missing entirely. 

When the hood dropped back, brilliantly colored blue eyes locked on Hermione's own chocolate ones, set against a forlorn, wan face, and shaded with eyelashes that stood out starkly against their backdrop of alabaster. Her lips were pale pink in the extreme, and compressed into a grim line. She looked solid, real, and her skin just a few shades shy of the vampiress Echidna Islet's. 

The leader motioned for the other Shades to draw their hoods back. The two flanking her were men, one with a shock of raven hair, the other with an obstinate jaw and unremarkable light blue eyes. One of the Shades that hung back was a tall, sinewy woman, with a hard face that spared no mercy, coupled with steely gray eyes no different from Draco's who stared—glared, perhaps—fixedly at them all. 

And the final Shade, the one Draco had Stunned the first time, let her hood fall liquidly off her face. She had a petal-like touch of youngness, almost an agelessness of sorts, with astoundingly luxurious dark hair spilling over her neck. Olive skin—strangely unchanging from the time when she was alive—was stretched tightly against fragile cheekbones and an elegantly poised nose. Calm bronze eyes emphasized the imperial, stately mask she wore. 

Hermione wasn't sure what to feel. Tethys LeFrienze, one of those involved in the circle Ghealdan had pulled together, was a Raincaster, and had once assisted Ginny with healing. A woman who rarely showed emotion and a murderess on the run from the Ministry of Magic. But once you knew Tethys, got under the cold cover, she had a maternal side to her, possessed a more caring touch. A friend, certainly, one she treasured—but a Shade? Yet she couldn't help smiling at Tethys, if a touch quaveringly. Tethys was a beautiful woman. She didn't deserve death. Gods, Hermione wished she could open her mouth and say something. As it was, pain and exhaustion were already drawing a red veil over her eyes. 

Draco made a strangled noise next to her, trembling faintly; she could feel him tensed, leaning shoulder to shoulder with her, watching his aunt, Lucius's younger sister. "_Tethys?!_" 

Tethys locked her eyes on Draco and flicked them to the leading Shade, the one with the striking blue eyes. The Shade, looking as unperturbed and eternal as Tethys did, noted the recognition dawning on their faces before speaking. 

_Travelers to the Labyrinth. An unusual occurrence. I am addressed as Maighhan._

Hermione grunted in added pain. Maighhan's lips remained pressed together, and sound did not emit from her—her voice echoed in her thoughts, invading her mind, pushing aside other contemplations, the almost harsh tone blinding her. She struggled for control, fought to find thoughts that belonged to herself, taking a few moments to do so. 

_Humans. They dabble in what is not good for them—raising the dead, indeed!_ Maighhan glanced from one startled face to the other. _Do not play with forces beyond your plane,_ she murmured a tad more gently. _The two of you are barely more than a young man and woman. It is sad that you have chosen this path. I wonder why?_

"I was coerced. I certainly did not—" Hermione coughed thickly; Draco's frown deepened as he moved closer to catch her lest she fell, "did not do this of my own free will!" 

_Everyone has a choice, lass. It depends on whether which one you make. _Maighhan flashed a bitter, half-smile at the ex-Gryffindor. _I assume I know your identities. The girl is one of the Children of ancient lore, isn't it? The one who wields the Bracelet of Clairvoyance that once belonged to Kydeane Lydian. The Erilis, I puzzle out. And the boy—with that sword, unmistakably the Child of Tomas Denair. The gatekeeper, and the one who is entrusted with the duty of warding the girl. I must remark that you're not doing a perfect job, lad_—this with a quick glance thrown at the blood that saturated Hermione's cloak and dress—_but it is hard not to get injured while on the plane of the dead. There are no other Children? Perhaps of Aeri, Tifa, Colerain, Rhuarc?_

"There are no others," Draco offered, motioning at Hermione to keep silent, masking the amazement on his face with composure. "I wasn't even aware of the possibility of other Children." 

_I knew Tomas and Kydeane,_ Maighhan said softly, floating closer, electric blue eyes fixed on Hermione and Draco. _They came here, Erilis and her Defender, Tomas with the Illumine Sword that he had forged by himself, Kydeane with her soothsaying and the Bracelet—simply to learn about necromancy. Both faced down the Amphisbaena and won._

"Tomas Denair and Kydeane Lydian lived nearly five thousand years ago," Draco said coolly, ice coating his gray eyes. "You mean to tell me that you've been here for five thousand years?" 

_Five thousand years? Has it been that long?_ Maighhan asked musingly. Her voice took on a wistful tone. _I can remember it clearly as yesterday. I was the youngest Shade then, having just departed from the plane of the living. Petite Kydeane, with the Bracelet tinkling on her wrist, wreathed in beauty and courage. Handsome Tomas who didn't even bat an eyelid at horrors of the Labyrinth. He took my breath away, me being the foolish young maiden I was. It was because of Tomas that I didn't kill them straightaway, and even helped them find their way out. Their love for each other was more than beautiful to see. They wouldn't let anything lay a finger on the other._

"How do we return to the plane of the living?" Hermione asked wearily, leaning heavily now on Draco. The blood was drying on her robes, caking into blackness, but she'd torn a hastily healed wound; fresh scarlet was seeping through her dress and cloak. She did not see it, but worry sharpened Draco's eyes. 

_You cannot return until you seek out the Shade you mean to raise._

"We seek Amlyne Marleine. I gathered that she doesn't reside in the Labyrinth. Could you tell—" 

_You must search for Amlyne Marleine by yourselves. When you find her, the Bracelet will return you to the dimension of the living. You must exit the Labyrinth, and pick another door out of the five you were faced with at first._ And then, unexpectedly, Maighhan's eyes darkening to imperceptible blackness—_I do not kill by nature. I apologize._

Draco swore as he drew the sword; in one smooth motion it had darted into the throat of the sable-haired male. With a rattling groan and a soft explosion, the Shade poofed itself into dust, fragments of ash that the wind netted and carried away. Another whirl, and he was facing the remaining male Shade, fending off Maighhan's and the Shade's orbs of crackling power with random lightning beams, orbs of his own, and strokes of the Sword. 

Hermione gasped in shock; she could feel an invisible sort of chain twining around her chest, tugging and tightening, drawing all breath from her lungs. As the chain heaved, she tottered forth out of the dead end into the main hallway, no breath left to even call out Draco's name, to bat at her Defender's attention. Tethys loomed before her like an ice floe before an oncoming ship, bronze eyes unwavering on hers. 

_Do not speak,_ she admonished Hermione, and though the words vibrated inwardly, it was nowhere near as strident as Maighhan's voice. _Play along, Hermione Granger. Cynicial will follow me._

Warily, Hermione stopped straining against the Raincaster's hold on her. Abruptly Tethys released her; she inhaled sharply, simply enjoying the sensation of the sharp tang of the nippy night air. Cynicial, the hard-faced Shade, was indeed shadowing Tethys guardedly, her ice blue eyes distrusting and suspicious. Almost without thinking, Hermione drew power from the Ether, adrenaline already beginning to pound through her. 

Pointedly ignoring Tethys—who had apparently given rein to her facial expressions; she was scowling freely at Cynicial—Hermione raised her wand to the face of the female Shade. As the strength of the Ether infused her, her senses sharpened to a point where it was almost painful. Heightened by the bond that connected her—the Erilis—and Draco, her Defender, she could sense Draco's heavy breathing, his fatigue, his anxiety, could pick out the loosened threads of his thoughts. She could feel Tethys's fury, annoyance and well-disguised fear. Faintly, Maighhan's mounting worry made itself known, and Cynicial's suspicion and mistrust raged along with the blue-eyed male Shade's thirst for victory. She could almost feel the moonbeams cascading so freely and wildly over the Labyrinth, could hear the whisper of the other guardians of the Labyrinth though thick stone walls separated them. And far, far away was the Amphisbaena, the very pulse of evil itself. 

The Ether was the web of magic all wizards and witches drew from through a conduit, their wands, but Hermione could draw raw power and channel much more strongly than most, had the ability to summon the elements to help her—wandless and even without the Bracelet. But even magic had a price tag. Nausea attacked her vaguely, peeking around the corner of the power she was in possession of. Draco's Illumine Sword unsettled her, magical vibrations tugging at the threads of the tapestry of the Ether. 

She willed to her the elements of water and air splashed with fire. Her right hand rose, almost of its own accord, as did her wand hand. She sketched ancient symbols, like an artist at her easel; silver burned them into the air. Mistily, caught almost unaware, Hermione felt the words bubble in her throat, then— 

"_Petrificus Totalus!_" 

Purple light clawed at the air in its eagerness to get to Cynicial, mauve that crackled and snapped; the hair on Hermione's arms stood, tingling. Simultaneously the Freezing Charm shot from the Bracelet clasped around her wrist, or at least a type of it. Hermione was not familiar with the way ice actually manifested and caged Cynicial instead of the simple immobility her earlier Freezing Charms had presented to her adversaries. She wasn't surprised, however. The Bracelet tended to erupt with a more archaic form of the hex she required, and Hermione didn't complain—magic was richer, back then. 

The Body-Bind successfully halted Cynicial, if only for a few seconds; the Freezing Charm did the rest of the work. Without pausing to think, Hermione reached under her cloak, feeling for the belt strapped tightly to her waist. She felt the cotton material of her dress before her fingers landed on leather and finally the coolness of one of her knife blades enveloped her fingers. 

Still driven by instinct and reflex, Hermione's throwing knife was a blurry whistle against the night air as it penetrated Cynicial's heart. The Shade's hate yanked sharply at the Ether and Hermione winced; Cynicial's eyes hardened even further, fixed unflinchingly at Hermione, before falling away into dust that swirled down the corridor. She bent and retrieved the knife, wiping away the oddly thick dust by the hem of her robes. 

_Hermione?_

Tethys's voice was far from plaintive, and yet wore a certain coat of wistfulness. Hermione could feel a tiny smile tug at her lips even as the drawn power from the Ether left her in a nauseating rush, reducing her to swallowing bitter bile back down her throat. Tethys's usual cool, emotionless mask was now tinged with a sort of melancholic longing. It suited her, emphasizing her delicate cheekbones and softening her eyes from a resolute bronze to a gentler shade of mahogany. 

_Could you kill me?_

"What?" The adrenaline from the earlier attack on Cynicial was threatening to leave Hermione, and she could still remember when the Amphisbaena reared up and tore through her dress, leaving in its wake tattered material and skin and searing fire. Purposefully ignoring the wound, she adjusted her cloak so that the clasp rested on her right shoulder, where it belonged. Then the full meaning of what Tethys had said hit her and Hermione's gaze flickered up to search Tethys's. "What do you _mean_, kill you?"

_I wish I could heal that for you._ Tethys glanced at the drying blood she had glimpsed before Hermione swung the cloak around. _You will find Amlyne_—her voice wavered very slightly at the mention of her cousin—_on the fourth doorway from the right. There you will face your fears and a succession of creatures; not dissimilar to the Labyrinth, but different enough for you to be cautious. More than cautious. Do you understand? Be very careful, and trust no one!_

Hermione nodded mutely. The moon shifted from its perch behind a wisp of a cloud, and the light fell onto Tethys's face, picking out the unconventional beauty and coloring—the bronze eyes, the brown hair, the olive skin, the rosebud mouth—that was only made attractive by the regality she wore. 

Out of the corner of Hermione's eye, Maighhan was snatching confused glances at them both, Erilis and Shade, not fighting, but chatting away idly. Evidently Tethys had noticed them as well. Both witch and Shade opened their stances at the same time to weave the illusion of a battle. 

_Anything, Hermione_—Tethys's voice was a cool, bitter hiss as she formed an orb in her hands. Anger fuelled Tethys's considerable power, but the Shade had aimed above Hermione's head; it whizzed by, singeing her hair, but did no damage—_Is better than what I have now. We are all haunted by memories, memories I wish to think nothing of! I will be sent to the plane of reincarnation_—Hermione sent a burst of sparkles, impressive-looking but did no harm, at Tethys, who dodged them easily—_and although my life will be cursed, the life after that will not. One last thing… when you return to the plane of the living… promise me you will never get yourself involved in necromancy again. Promise me you will slay Amlyne, then put all this behind you forever. Do not feel malice and greed, Hermione. Do not end up in the Labyrinth._

"I promise," Hermione whispered, clenching both fists, fighting with her sorrow. "Thank you." 

_You were one of my few friends, Hermione. I will not forget you or Draco._

Hermione tucked the throwing knife she had picked up back into her weapons belt and unsheathed another. She tested the weight in her hand; it was suitably heavy and tapered to a sharp point, more slender than most throwing knives, and yet her best—the one that killed with hardly a sound or pain. It veiled history, judging from the unusual ruby-encrusted hilt, although Hermione never did find out what. It quivered with the force of her throw even while it trapped itself in Tethys's throat. 

Wordlessly she watched, proffering a silent prayer as Tethys frayed into dust from hem of her robes to crown of her hair. Tethys's gaze never wavered, not even when Hermione's blade had penetrated. The breeze snatched up the powdery dust eagerly, eddying it down the hallway and beyond. The knife landed onto the floor with a strangely melodic chime; Hermione flipped it upwards by nestling her foot under the blade and tossing it into the air; one of those nifty tricks Sirius took great pleasure in teaching her. 

Draco had managed to decapitate the male Shade that had shadowed Maighhan but was sparring with her now. Maighhan's rapier crackled sharply, and Hermione could sense it through the pane that separated her from the Ether—it was formed of an odd mixture of water and earth. Hovering uncertainly behind the Shade, whose cloak flapped and hissed as she darted and ducked with surprising agility and ease, Hermione tried to catch Draco's gaze. 

It wasn't long before he distinguished her standing here, and one flash of those gray eyes warned her to stay out of it—common sense really, they swapped and traded places too quickly for her to focus on a target. 

Still the witch watched, fear cascading icily over her whenever Maighhan's blade taunted Draco. Movement behind Draco that was not his own caught at her eye piercingly—a male Shade, his cheeks sunken and eyes almost wild, loomed at the boy's back, a dagger clenched in one hand. He was not part of the original group of Shades. 

Once more not speaking, responding to instinct, Hermione hurled the ruby knife at the Shade, and it struck squarely in the middle of his chest. Without a word save an ominous rustle of his cloak, the Shade shattered into powder. 

Hermione bristled, Gryffindor pride and honor flaming within her. The thought of sneaking up on someone's back—! Wasn't it bad enough that humans were barbaric and low-minded? Did ghosts from another realm have to be like that, too? 

"Bastard!" 

Startled, Draco glanced over fleetingly, eyes gilded with amusement. Hermione scowled at him and he hastily returned to the battle. Moving now with urgency, Draco jabbed at Maighhan, and the Shade howled, a shrill scream that emitted from her and did not echo in their heads, as he brought the sword sweeping down her back, ripping robe and dress and finally skin. As Maighhan feinted at him for the last time, her movements off-balance and a beat slow, Draco twirled and rammed the Illumine Sword home, through her chest and piercing through her back. 

There was a half-smile on Maighhan's face. The murmur lifted from her lips like a firefly rising from a leaf. _Thank you._

"She's gone to a better place than the Labyrinth," Hermione explained, trying to adopt a light tone at Draco's furrowed brow. They stood for a few moments, silent and contemplative, Draco with his head tilted back to watch the moon's passage against a navy sky, Hermione staring at the scattered dust in the wind thoughtfully as if it held the answers to all their questions. Finally she shrugged—and gasped, God, the movement hurt— breaking the stillness, and said, "_Accio_ knife." It flew to her, hilt first, and she tucked it fondly back into her belt. 

"Gryffindors never quite lose their arrogance, do they?" Draco asked teasingly, a bit of his old malicious mischief blazing his silver eyes, referring to her swearing at the Shade behind him. Hermione stuck her tongue out at him almost involuntarily before realizing how childish she was being and hurriedly retracting it, but unable to call for a suitable answer. Draco chuckled, a low, pleased laugh before falling into his usual quick, steady step, leading her onwards. 

Twenty paces ahead of them, shrouded in darkness, was a thick, ironclad door, crisscrossed with indentations that looked as if someone had hacked away at it in frustration. In a way, Draco mused uneasily, it was probably several someones. Whatever obstacle the door presented, it wasn't one that was easy to overcome. 

He paused suddenly, and Hermione plowed into him. Almost without thinking, he steadied her, but his mind was somewhere else. There was something off about this whole thing. It was too easy. The Amphisbaena would not let them go from the Labyrinth just like that, not after all the horrors they had faced. There would be something waiting, another distraction and hindrance— 

It struck him: the roughly hewn stones that made up the walls were fleeced with a fine, powdery substance that glimmered gray in the starbeams and moonlight. It… repelled Draco, somehow. Like the door, it was not as it seemed at one glance. If he had been the Draco he was a few years—no, months—back, he probably would have dismissed it with a glance, thinking that it was simply dust collected by the fingers of time. But now that he was the Erilis's Defender, he was more wary, and astute, and the weirdness of the whole thing was setting off noiseless alarms in his head. And once again like the door that barred their way out, it seemed to speak the unspeakable, skillfully pulling together threads to scrawl a story of death. 

"Isn't it just dirt?" Hermione asked tiredly. 

"Have you noticed," Draco said slowly, "that although the Labyrinth gives the impression of—of oldness, of stones and ancient formalities and mythological creatures, there is never a speck of dirt or dust on the floor or walls?" 

"Not particularly. But now that you've mentioned it... yes." 

"It's spread very thinly here. Further down it's much thicker. I seem to have seen it before," Draco said waspishly, irritation grasping him momentarily. "I just can't place it right now." 

"Then don't try," Hermione returned simply. "Can you recall the name?" 

"I think it's called Kaltina Dust. Pretty name, but I can't remember what the—" Good grief, Draco had a colorful vocabulary, only it was decorated with all the wrong colors—"thing means, but it's—serious, that's what I recall." 

"Well, no help for it." Hermione hoped feverishly that her panic didn't show in her face. "It's either that or we move in with the Shades." 

"Hermione?" 

"Yes?" 

"Promise me you'll be careful." 

"I will if you do," she responded sincerely, and ventured another step. 

Instantly images flashed past her eyes in sickening lurches. Hermione gasped tremulously, recognizing the scene instantly for what it was. Half screaming, half sobbing, she fell to her knees, crumpling as if she simply lacked the willpower to stand. Gagging, leaning forth, she retched, trying not to see. Trying not to glimpse the torn, mangled body, the dull gray scales gleaming blue under the harsh moonlight that filtered through the stained glass dome, the sound of ripping flesh and breaking bone… 

She could remember every millisecond, every frayed breath she had taken, and the hysteria that had claimed her at the time. Chained to the wall and unable to do anything but watch as the life of one of her best friends was taken away from her, torn violently and easily like fragile parchment paper. How long had it been when Ginny died? Hermione hadn't even a chance to mourn yet. Why punish her like this? Why land her in the very scene where Ginny had been—eaten? Why remind her that by merely being Ginny's friend, she had damned the girl to certain death—? 

Someone grabbed her roughly, one hand closing on her shoulder, the other gripping her arm, and hauled her upwards, unmindful of the sobs wracking her body. They dragged her onwards, closer to Ginny's body; Hermione slammed her eyes shut, turning her face away from the coppery tang of fresh blood that saturated the air. Fifteen steps, she and her unknown assailant took, before that someone reared back and slapped her hard. 

She jerked back, unwilling to open her eyes even yet. It took another slap, and a series of shaking her so ferociously that her teeth rattled somewhere in the region of her throat, before she could register the voice speaking and the words that Draco was repeating over and over again. "It's not real, Hermione, it's not real. It's the past. It's over." 

Her eyes flew open then, and she writhed under Draco's touch, stepping away from him as if stung. "Did you see?" Her voice was hoarse; even to herself, it was unrecognizable. "Tell me now, Draco Malfoy, did you see? The Hydra, you, me, Echidna, Tethys, Deneb, Ginny—" Her voice splintered into cracked shards, but she went on recklessly. "Ginny, on the floor, dead! Dead, her body blood and bones and flesh—" 

"Hermione… Hermione! Hermione, listen! Stop it and listen to me!" Draco slapped her again, hit her hard. Some of the dull fuzziness in her brain seemed to seep away at the moment. Draco was striking her? 

"That was Kaltina Dust!" Hermione began to attend, chasing after the knowledge Draco was dangling like catnip before her face. "Kaltina Dust, Granger, are you listening to me?!" 

"I'm listening," she threw out, fumbling for something she could hold on to, a tiny bit of reality. The wall presented itself and she slumped against it. 

"Kaltina Dust. It came from the Shades, after they died and crumbled into dust… this was where the wind swept them, did you notice? They would stick to the walls and wait for the victim, useful even after destruction." Draco's voice was hardened, bitter. Hermione had never heard him so hostile before, so cold and deadly furious. It was like a wake-up call. "Those who walk into Kaltina Dust will be forced to relive their worst memory, the most horrible moment in their lives." 

"What did you see?" Hermione asked fearfully, reaching out for, now, at the rationality she had been so famous for back at Hogwarts. "You don't—" Draco's voice tailed off. His next words were clipped. "My mother, after she was murdered. Like Ginny. Bits and pieces. But her eyes were open, staring at me, asking me why—" he broke off somberly. Hermione peered at him. Draco was taking it better than she thought—then again, this was a boy raised on the Dark side. 

"I've found that the best way to deal with it was not to think about it," Draco said briefly, surveying the girl before him. Hermione didn't have the—experience he was in possession of. Hesitating, and yet knowing that he should do something, he took her hand awkwardly for a few moments before turning back to the door in front of them. 

She seemed thankful for the gesture, the wildness in her eyes taming itself back into the composure he remembered and silently admired. Hermione joined him at the door, almost snarling at the forbidding dark iron, her eyes nearly ink black in the shadows. He watched patiently, waiting for her to come to the conclusions he did, preferring that to telling her straight off. 

Hermione gently ran her fingers over the door, near chest-level, lighted by the slant of the moonlight. Nearly an inch thick of dust came off and she made a noise as if of revulsion. Then, her eyes narrowing, she leaned close and ran her fingers over the exit again. 

"There are carved words here," she announced, and squinted to look closer. "I can't see a damned thing. _Lumos_!" she instructed her Bracelet, which glittered even more furiously than before. She held her wrist closer to the words, wiping the grime away almost absently now. 

_'I do not exist within the darkness or the light.'_

"I do not exist within the darkness or the light?" Hermione exhaled impatiently. Draco leaned against the wall, mindful of the filth on the door, his expression thoughtful. The Kaltina Dust had melted away once they had traversed the corridor. There was a heartbeat's silence, before Hermione whispered again, "I do not exist within the darkness or the light. It's a riddle, Draco. And I don't know if I have an ounce of logic left in me." 

"What is there besides darkness and light? There's nothing—everything is either light or dark," Draco pointed out quietly. "Unless twilight—because that's a mixture of both?" A skip, then he grasped at what he had just said. He turned astounded eyes at Hermione's face, which was quickly being overtaken by a look of revelation and breathless euphoria. She turned to the door, speaking to it directly. 

"Shadow." 

Absolutely nothing proceeded to happen. 

When the door didn't budge, the flushed fever in Hermione's cheeks faded a trifle. "It's not the right answer, is it?" she fretted. "It's not the right answer—" 

"Shadows exist within both," Draco said simply, addressing the door. There was a long creak as it inched open, surrendering to them, the notches and nicks in the metal silhouetted by the blinding light that drenched them both, flooding from the open doorway, preventing them from seeing what was beyond. Tensed apprehension dashed away the earlier look of elation on Hermione's face. 

Draco nodded. When the doorway was sufficiently big enough, Hermione instinctively felt for his hand, which he tightened over hers. And they stepped through. 

* * *

This chapter is un-beta-ed, because G's having major exams these year and I certainly don't want to bother her. *hints that you should send her positive vibes* So any mistakes here are mine alone. Now press that violet review button down there, and do tell me what you think! Compliments will be given a dust bunny of a color of your choice and a nice comfy sofa by the fire; constructive criticsm will get another dust bunny and a cup of hot/iced chocolate, depending on your mood, not to mention many grateful cookies. Flames will have the door shut painfully in their faces. =P 

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	2. As If Waving Farewell

**Mistress of Shadows  
Chapter Two: As If Waving Farewell  
Written by Elluxion**

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*sighs wearily* DRAFT NUMBER NINE... I haven't even the energy to read through and edit... I apologize if it's rather poorly written, I just didn't have the heart to go on to Draft Ten... 

Basically if you read this, I'd really, -really- love for you to tell me what you think of Echidna... I'm rather proud of her and she'll be playing a rather pivotal role in the chapters to come. If you don't like her, do tell me _why_ don't you like her. ^^ Thank you! 

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There was just something about the destroyed village of Hogsmeade that Echidna liked. 

She watched the wizards and witches of the Resurrection Squad through lowered eyelashes and fallen raven bangs that swung in front of her face, crouching with one leg curled under her so she could spring up easily when need required. Echidna Islet was half-hidden in the haphazard remains of the Hog's Head, hunkered down under what remained of the counter. One wall of the dilapidated pub was still standing, though partially scorched; the other three walls were ashes caught in the fingers of the wind. 

Above Echidna's head was an evening sky of brilliant blue; the newly fallen night was still laced with vestiges of summer day. The horizon glowed with the insistency of a sun that refused to set, and it was towards that luminescence Echidna kept cutting her eyes to. Sunlight could neither harm nor kill a vampire, but it irritated one's skin and lowered the clarity of one's vision. 

Echidna returned to watching the men who stood chatting idly only a few feet away. One was a well-muscled young man with burns on his tanned arms and hands—she'd already learned that his name was Charlie, and that he was a dragonrider. Though Echidna was a predator, she respected the undefeatable strength of the dragons of lore; anyone who could harness that power deserved her respect as well. Charlie was not on her list of victims, but the other wizard certainly was. A younger man with a pale, thin face and a perpetual sneer: he annoyed her immensely with the way he kept ordering Charlie to do things he could have done just as well himself. 

The vampiress's skin prickled thrillingly; the glow of the sun on horizon extinguished with a defeated sigh only Echidna could hear. Night was upon them. 

She was ready to hunt. 

The cinders of Hogsmeade were ideal hunting grounds. Certainly Echidna shared the grounds with other vampires and phantoms of darkness, but the wizarding village spanned large enough so that they didn't have to kill each other to get their required forms of nourishment. There were countless witches and wizards, all eager to repair the derelict town, enough so that organization was messy and the absence of a few was surmised to the fact that they'd headed home early. When their bloodless bodies were stumbled upon the next day, Echidna would be far away by then, taking shelter in what those humans referred to as the 'severely haunted' Shrieking Shack. 

The pale-faced wizard pointed at a bucketful of wild flames that danced upon the still-standing roof of a clothing store; with a set look to his jaw and eyes, the dragonrider hitched up his robes and began making for the ruins of the store, wand already in hand. 

Echidna rose gracefully from the counter, taking her time, walking out with a measured pace as if inspecting the damage around her. She tugged at the purposely-ripped robes she wore that exposed a fair amount of skin and showed her long legs to great advantage, drawing the attention of the wizard whom the dragonrider had left behind. Hips swaying enticingly, lips pursed in a helpless almost-pout, she paused in front of the man. 

"Good evening, miss," he said admiringly, drinking in the well-known vampire beauty, not noticing that Echidna's skin tone matched that of clouds. "How may I help you?" 

"Good evening, sir." Echidna smiled back. "As you can tell…" she gestured to her robes, "I've just been attacked by some sort of Dark creature, and since you look like a skilled wizard, I would truly appreciate your help in exterminating it. Could you aid me?" She twined every syllable around the wizard, sounding out all the letters in an elusive lilt, lowering his defenses, bringing his guard down. Vampire song, some called it, and Echidna came from a long line of songstresses. 

She led the obliging wizard to a more desolate landsite that was littered by bits of metal, wood, and glass. Along the way, the sneering young man flirted outrageously with her, questioned gently what a breathtaking lady like herself was doing in such a dangerous place like this, and she had him so around her little finger that if she'd commanded him to leap of a cliff, he would have done so, and smiling while he fell. 

Echidna gave a soft, satisfied sigh as she sank her fangs into the man's neck. He didn't flail, nor struggle, but melted into her tender embrace as if he'd been born to do so. His blood tasted indescribably sweet, power surging through Echidna with every breath she drew; it was obvious that he was from a pure wizarding bloodline. She drained him alive, and he was still breathing when she lifted her head from his neck. Biting down on a smirk, Echidna bent to give the wizard his concluding kiss, and held it long enough so that she captured his final breath. 

~*~ 

She sat drinking in the beauty of the verdant countryside that fell away from one side of her; smiling softly in remembrance of the number of times she'd admired the lush green landscapes. The train trundled on, rattling on the well-worn tracks, and she was at one with its lullaby. 

"Look, Min," Ginny Weasley whispered to her, green eyes gleaming brilliantly in the cold moonlight. "It's your final glimpse of Hogwarts." 

Hermione Granger turned in time to see the magnificent castle placidly cresting a hill, every turret and tower sharply outlined by starlight, silhouetted against the rising moon. It twinkled merrily at her in all its pleasing, warm beauty, as if waving farewell to the girl it had known for seven years of her life. 

The Hogwarts Express swept around a bend and it was gone. 

She turned back: mood dampened slightly, face sobered. This year, Dumbledore had insisted they left directly after the Hogwarts Graduation Ball, to remember their final night at the school they had known and loved for so long. It felt like one of those Muggle fairytales—Cinderella, leaving the ball in glass slippers and fancy gown, her heart brimming with bittersweet and conflicted emotions. 

The future frightened her considerably. She didn't know what was to come next; everything was pressing in on her at once. Her parents' expectations, for one thing. Her teachers' beliefs that she would excel in whatever field she decided to participate in. The school she left behind; as Hogwarts' Head Girl and Valedictorian, her younger peers who would be looking to her as an example. Her friends, who expected her to accomplish all that and yet still be there for them when they needed her. Sometimes it was too much, all the stress and pressure. Sometimes she felt like she was cracking at the seams, like if one extra blow was dealt to her, she would disintegrate into pieces and fall, and no one would catch her, because she was always catching someone else. 

Hermione sighed; she could still handle all those; she was stronger than what the surface suggested. Yet as Dumbledore's speech drifted into her mind, bits of flotsam and jetsam amid the sea of worries, something else took center stage on her anxieties. 

_'This year has not been an easy one. I am talking of the war that occurred last year, and I speak to all those who have participated in it. Many have lost their loved ones, or perhaps a small part of themselves. Some found a legacy that has been hidden to them a long time.'_ Dumbledore's eyes had fallen and locked onto Hermione's. _'I would like to remind them that should they need help in any form, in coming to acceptance with this new power, we are always open to you.'_

Hermione's inward smile was wry. Could they? Could they understand the difficulty of forging on by yourself with _nothing_ to help you? Could they understand Hermione's ability to channel raw power from the Ether, the magical tapestry wizards and witches drew from with their wands? Could they comprehend Hermione being able to twist the elements to her control? Could they realize that Hermione was able to sense magical artifacts at close range, Animagus or anyone under the Imperius Curse by merely the disturbance in the Ether? Could they appreciate that Hermione was dealing with all this, on top of everything else? 

Ginny dozed off, her head in Harry Potter's lap. Harry was absently consuming a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, eyes blinking owlishly from behind his glasses. His eyes were fixed unseeingly on the flashing scenery in the adjacent window of the train; Hermione was rather certain he didn't taste the Beans at all, as he picked up a suspiciously nasty-looking dark-green one and popped it into his mouth with hardly a grimace. She supposed that he was thinking along the same lines she was. 

Now a solemn-eyed lad of seventeen, with newfound maturity radiating from him, Harry may have lost the thirst for childish risks and adventures, and perhaps his innocence as well—he'd seen too much to be naïve any longer—but in doing so, Hermione knew that he'd found himself, and for the first time in seventeen years, was at peace with who and what he was. She watched as with a sigh, Harry put down the bag and began playing with Ginny's hair, hands combing out loose tangles and skillfully working out the knots, running through every strand. It was a familiar sight: Ginny with her head nestled in Harry's lap, and Harry straightening her hair for her. Hermione wondered how many times they'd done that while chatting in front of the fireplace. 

Ginny herself was probably the best looking of the four, though Harry and Ron had both been awfully sought-after at Hogwarts. With a fierce, falcon-like beauty, emerald eyes that burned with unquenchable fire, and shoulder-length, flaming hair, Ginny's self-assured personality and unshakable confidence shone through every fiber of her being. (Not to mention an admirable figure from being a Quidditch Beater, Hermione thought with a playfully jealous pang.) Yet there was a frailty to those steady green eyes: Ginny loved with passion, and too easily. It was all too easy to snatch from her her heart and shatter it into millions of forlorn pieces. 

She had taken the seventh-years' train because she had to leave early. In one of Fleur's visits to Hogwarts, she'd rather unexpectedly taken a shine to Ginny, and had introduced the Beauxbatons-Hogwarts exchange program to the Gryffindor. Ginny had jumped at the chance to be at Beauxbatons, France, for a year, learning and living with Fleur Delacour, who assisted Madam Maxime in administrative work. 

Hermione certainly knew someone who would miss having the impish sixth-year around. Wryly, she brought to mind the uncountable times Ron Weasley had groaned about his sister visiting in some foreign country, and the uncountable times she had to calm his hysterical fears. Ginny was, to Ron, irreplaceably precious, especially after Bill's death. 

He lay slumbering in one corner, snoring lightly; his long, lanky form draped casually over plush seats meant for three, legs dangling a few inches from the carriage floor. Graced with boyish blue eyes that were unfaltering as Ginny's and (to the giggling Lavender and Pavarti) a rather _sexy_ tousled head of red hair that was nearly as unruly as Harry's, Hermione privately agreed with Lavender's and Pavarti's deduction that Ron was one of the more desirable fellows schooling at Hogwarts. There was just an arrestingly fresh-faced lilt to his features. Years as a Prefect had instilled in him the necessity of shouldering responsibility; in the Last Battle—Hermione's stomach lurched just thinking about it—he'd proven to be a selfless comrade, risking his life and in turn recovering many others. 

They'd all changed, and for the better, yet Hermione privately thought at times that the price they paid—lost innocence—was too hefty: particularly for her and Harry. The three of them knew of her as Child of Lydian, of course, and her newborn powers. But they would never understand how she felt. 

~*~ 

"Wondrously done, Miss Islet. The legends they've spun around you are entirely true." 

Echidna whirled lightly, appreciating fully, for once, the additional vampire grace and strength. The lifeless body of the wizard she had hunted down fell away from her grasp, landing with a dull thud on the grimy floor, already forgotten, just another face in a crowd of prey. As her robes settled about her again, she took an unnoticed step back; shifting her balance for a better attack point. 

"Then you know what I can do," she returned evenly, threading magic in her words, waiting for the intruder's eyes to blur and lid, for the tensed shoulders to relax, for him to be subject to whatever whims she might have. Echidna could feel anger coil within her; it was very, very rude to interrupt a vampiress when she was feeding. 

He laughed amusedly, stepping closer so that the watery moonlight tossed beams carelessly across his features. It was a man, perhaps in his late thirties or early forties, judging from the tiniest hint of white lining his temples. He had ageless good looks: Irish-green eyes that burned with intelligence and purpose, neatly kept dark hair, and a tall and board-shouldered stature. Those eyes were weighing heavily on Echidna at the moment, cool and unperturbed. 

"You wouldn't expect me to approach an infamous vampiress unprotected, would you now, Miss Islet?" he asked without a hint of sarcasm, a small smile quirking at his lips. "You have got quite a reputation as a charmer, a songstress… and not to mention kisses that people would die to receive." All of these were delivered without the slightest hint of irony touching his tone or inflection of voice. 

Echidna hissed, certain that he was mocking her: it was a low, sibilant sound, one that rose flutteringly from her throat and wound sensuously around the still night air. A screech owl stiffened from its perch in a damaged roof beam nearby, and winged away into the stars. If truly provoked, Echidna's hiss could half-deafen, a tamer version of a banshee's shriek. 

"Who are you?" she shot at him, her words sheared and clipped, now; she could not risk someone shouldering in on her territory. At the very thought, her hands, which had been resting loosely by her side, balled into firsts, fingernails etching lines onto her palm. It was a taboo that outraged vampires the most. 

"A true beauty," he murmured approvingly, still without scorn or disdain; Echidna hissed again: she felt like a pig on display. "I am sorry if I have offended you, Miss Islet," the stranger said, startled. "Forgive me, Miss, but I seem to have taken leave of all my manners: I am addressed as Ghealdan Jorj, and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance." 

He held out an open palm. Echidna jerked backwards, still jittery, and very wary, but he was merely waiting to kiss her hand. She weighed her chances; what could he do to her with a kiss on the back of her hand? 

A smiled curled at her lips. The question was, what could _she_ do to _him_ with a kiss on the back of her hand? Without much ado, Echidna promptly slid her hand into his. 

Ghealdan placed a light butterfly's kiss on her skin. As he was bent, back and neck precariously exposed, Echidna's other hand lashed out, fingernails unnaturally sharp: she made for his neck with a half-formed thought to snap it; it would be awkward drinking from him with a lolling neck, but there was no time for further chances or consideration. 

Once her hand made contact with Ghealdan's flesh, she howled as blazing pain lanced through her, agony rippling down and up one arm. She snatched it away wildly, biting down hard on any other appearances of pain. Ghealdan still held her other hand in a loose grasp; she yanked that away as well. Only the one she had used to attack him was charred and blackened, skin still smoking gently; the other one that Ghealdan had clasped was unscarred and normal. She bit down so hard on her lower lip that she tasted the coppery tang of recycled blood; her last meal had left the blood still running hotly through her veins. 

"What kind of… _creature_ are you?" Echidna said in horror and fear—quivering fear—leaving her with an astringent, rough, sour taste on her tongue—or perhaps it was merely the blood. "You can touch me as you like, but I can't lay a finger on you without being burnt…" 

As a response, Ghealdan Jorj reached under his robes, and in the twinkle of an eye drew out a cross the exact shade of his eyes. 

Echidna's breath hitched in her throat, feeling a prickling sensation behind her eyes that threatened to break into tears. She was so frightened she was surprised she hadn't fainted. Rooted to the spot by pure, icy fear, harshly disgusted by the item Ghealdan so casually tossed up and down in one hand, Echidna was working very hard to suppress a scream. 

~*~ 

The door slid open in a ragged whisper, neatly slicing off Hermione's train of thought. The figure that stood hesitantly at the threshold of their carriage was impressively silhouetted in a warm rectangle of light that flooded in from the main corridor. It fell across Ginny's face; the girl's nose twitched and she shifted in Harry's lap so that her face was buried in his robes. 

He stepped in quickly, closing the carriage door quietly behind him. "I really hate that light," he explained to a bemused Hermione, "it's obscenely cheerful." 

The silver moonlight suited him better, at any rate. Draco Malfoy had height enough to rival Ron's, and that was saying a lot since Ron towered over most of Hogwarts. Loose silver bangs fell with an offhand casualness into his face and eyes, catching at the celestial lighting so that they nearly glowed. Behind those bangs was a pair of gray eyes that scanned the carriage not at all hastily, and below those gray eyes were poised cheekbones and almost-girlish lips. Draco's beauty was androgynous, a compelling mix of ice and fire, accentuated by a sort of inner stillness only he possessed. Hermione studied him but fared no further on the mystery of his profile. 

"Hermione," he acknowledged with an inclination of his head in her direction. 

"You can come in if you want to," Hermione said comfortably. "They're all asleep, so keep your voice down." 

"Oh—they're all sleeping, then?" Draco's expression never altered, but his eyes softened slightly, the silverish, liquid depths of them stirred by disappointment. "I actually wanted a word with Harry, but as he seems rather contented right now—" he sent an amused look with Hermione, who smiled in return. 

"D'you have a message you want to pass on to him?" 

"No, it's alright." He stepped in anyway, carefully avoiding from treading on Ron's robes, and seated himself next to Hermione. Cloaked by thankful darkness, Hermione shifted imperceptibly so as to examine the boy next to her. It was still an unsolved riddle why his jeering and caustic comments had ceased after his fifth summer home. It was as if he'd seen something so horrendous and disgusting that he couldn't bring himself to waste time doing so. She didn't have an inkling of what happened, yet they'd all noticed his change—he was more still, more profound, not quiet, but more reflective. 

Hermione found herself working twice as hard to maintain her position as top of the level; she scraped past Draco with only a mere handful of marks at times, particularly in Charms and Transfiguration. Draco was just that Slytherin in Potions now, an acquaintance she never sought out, but was friendly with. It resembled her friendship with Hannah Abbott, the Slytherin seventh-year. She could recall a few fiery debates with Draco in class when they both got riled enough, debates that went on even after the bell had rung. Draco had never lost the charisma, the way he had with girls, but he was certainly more subdued. 

She scrutinized him for a mere handful of seconds before she felt his eyes weighing heavily on her. He'd abandoned all pretense with her now, steel eyes filled with intensity she found unsettling. 

"You want to know, don't you?" he asked softly. 

The question hung in the air like dangled poisoned candy and melded itself into the tentative silence. Caught like a deer in headlamps, Hermione's tongue seemed glued to the roof of her mouth, but she jerked her head once. 

"I can't tell you," Draco said calmly. 

A tongue of exasperation wavered in Hermione. Why did he ask if he had no intention to enlighten her? 

"But," he added tantalizingly. "I can show you." 

Movements languid and fluid, he withdrew his wand and sketched a luminous symbol in the air before them, murmuring spell words under his breath too low for Hermione to catch. She was not trying to listen, however; the moment his wand made contact with the first line of the symbol, Hermione could sense the disturbance in the Ether: Draco was pulling at its threads, tugging hard; something had to give, to snap— 

The symbol sprang to life, melting into a dim rectangle, not unlike a Muggle television. Hermione started and lost her momentary connection to the Ether, yet she had no time to muse upon its oddity as the screen began to play a scene from Draco's memory. Beside her, she could feel the Slytherin tense. 

~*~ 

"_The—Killamery—Cross._" It was spat out like a repulsive swear word. Echidna swiped at a bead of sweat that hovered on her brow and frantically shifted her gaze to meet with Ghealdan Jorj's; just looking at the Cross sapped her relentlessly. But the image of the Cross burned itself savagely into her mind. It was made of roughly hewn greystone and colored Irish green, and wreathed in marigolds and triquetras. There was a protruding marble in the heart of the Cross, and there were two entwined serpents on the left and right shafts. The topmost serpents on the left and right shafts had their tails clasped together as if in welcome; the bottommost serpents replicated the carving. 

But most importantly she knew it as vampire's blight; Echidna's own mother had spoken matter-of-factly that nearly every vampire who came across the Killamery Cross would come face-to-face with death. 

Ghealdan smiled courteously. "Yes, indeed, Miss Islet: I applaud your knowledge. And listen to the words I speak clear: _you belong to me now_." 

Abruptly Echidna felt a collar close around her neck, drawn so forcefully it was a struggle for every breath; snarling she clawed at the invisible choker, yet her fingers met with an unseen resistance two inches from her neck. She took a step back, but Ghealdan's arm jolted backwards as if twitching a leash: she either had to give in to his command and draw up closer to him than was comfortable, or risk a snapped neck. 

"What is this?" She gave a strangled gasp as the collar tightened; she wrenched at it, but it made no difference for all her efforts. "Set me free!" 

"I apologize for your shock, but it had to be done quickly. You see, once a vampire lays eyes on the Killamery Cross, he or she is bound to me after I speak the words. There is actually no need for the collar. Your will is mine, Miss Islet, as are your future actions. The collar is merely a taster of things to come. You _will_ learn to restrain yourself from hurting me through the means of a weapon or another person." Ghealdan's smile turned almost sympathetic. "Besides, you cannot touch me against my wishes while I wear this." He lifted the Cross so that it was suspended before Echidna's eyes. 

Her eyes flamed as she spat at him; this was barbaric! Insane, mad, and absolutely pointless; why would anyone want a _vampiress_ as a pet, much less _Echidna_? She came from a long line of revered vampires: this was a hideous outrage she could not bear! Collared and leashed like an uncontrollable beast, and idiotically tricked so that she was paralyzed by the Cross! Once she got free—it wasn't an option; it was a must!—she would make the man scream long and loud… she'd break every bone in his body with her bare hands alone if she must… she would rip off strips of his skin and feed them to the werewolves… she would feed on him alive and aware… she would wring every drop of blood out of his body… but whatever it took, Echidna Islet swore that Ghealdan Jorj would die! 

She scrabbled for the whip she had concealed under her robes with a full mind to slay him then and there, to slaughter him like a pig, like the way he treated her. Ghealdan merely shook his head sadly. "Echidna, Echidna, Echidna. When will you learn?" 

Her fingers closed about the handle of the whip; she drew it out, delighted at the feel of the handle in her hand. Within moments, a second shriek tore its way out of her throat. Before she could even drop into battle stance, the whip exploded into a firework of emerald flames, flames that ate up the weapon in one heartbeat; the lash was reduced to bone-white ashes that drifted lazily to the ground. 

Echidna flared in grief, humiliation and anger. "So I am not allowed to handle my own weapons! That was the last thing my mother left me, you unworthy _animal_!" 

"Oh, dear," Ghealdan murmured. "Lass, you must learn that you are mine now. _You are mine now_." 

~*~ 

"Lucius, this is ridiculous!" 

Narcissa Malfoy prowled the bedroom restlessly, pacing in short, quick, angered steps, flaxen hair fanning behind her with every turn she made. 

"An initiation for Draco? He's _fifteen_! He needs to meet girls, maybe get settled, before you start dragging him into Death Eater meetings. He needs a _childhood_, Lucius, or at least normal teenage years. I can't take it any longer!" 

She twisted, blue eyes fixed accusingly on her husband. He sat silently on the bed, robed already in full dress though it was only seven in the morning, gray eyes coolly on hers. There was an awkward silence, Narcissa glaring furiously at Lucius, Lucius looking gamely back as if this was nothing more than a conversation about the weather. Truthfully, their conversations had never gone beyond the weather anyway. Their marriage had been one hundred percent business and they both knew it. 

"No one told you to 'take' or endure anything." 

She pushed her shoulders back and straightened, looking appraisingly down at Lucius, lips pursed. A tiny tremor of hope registered in her mind, but she didn't dare let it swell to any more than a tremor. "What on earth are you talking about, Lucius?" 

"I do not lack many things, Narcissa," Lucius said calmly. "I do not lack influence, I do not lack money, I do not lack women. You can divorce me for all I care; I will just find someone else to take your place as Lady of the Manor. What I do lack, Narcissa, is a heir for the Dark Lord. The son you borne—Draco—I am not pleased with what he has done in Hogwarts. He has never progressed beyond mere teasing or threatening. The Lord thinks that Draco is too soft and incompetent for the sights he has to unveil to him. If you leave me, Narcissa, and take Draco away from his initiation, he will no longer be the heir of the Dark Lord." 

"Are you serious?" Narcissa whispered in almost giddying euphoria. 

"Certainly," Lucius drawled offhandedly. 

"Thank the gods," Narcissa breathed, spinning and dashing towards the door. She was already formulating plans about where to run to, where to live, how she would bring Draco up properly— 

She was already twisting the knob on the door when Lucius's amused voice spoke up again. 

"When I said you could leave, Narcissa, I meant in tatters and pieces so unrecognizable that your precious son wouldn't know you save for that frilly frock you're wearing at the moment." 

~*~ 

"Bastard," Hermione hissed, shaking uncontrollably with rage. "D'you know what he tried to do to me when I was sixteen…" She seemed to choke on the words; her hands balled into fists, but she said nothing more. 

"I know," Draco said grimly. "I was there." 

"How'd you see this anyway?" Logical queries swam through the blur of the tears in Hermione's eyes, blunting the disgust of the memory that was still razor-sharp in her mind. "You couldn't have been there…" 

"…or I would have stopped him," Draco finished heavily. "Iolaus Malfoy, a distant ancestor of mine and a portrait in Malfoy Manor, alerted me of the incident after he heard from the banshee portrait in the room. He agreed to link me to the Manor after I left home." 

He whirled his wand at the screen; it muted to a dullness that was nearly eaten up by the silver-streaked darkness, but then sparked to life once more. It was the same bedroom, though drastically changed, and from the way the sunlight fell into the room, some time had already elapsed. 

~*~ 

"Mother?" 

Fifteen-year-old Draco Malfoy entered the room, calling out but not expecting a reply. The bloodstained walls and furniture told him wordlessly much more than his mother ever would. Lightly he knelt and drew a finger over one particularly gory jet of blood scattered on the carpet; it was still vaguely warm. The entire bedroom smelled coppery, a sharp tang he never managed to get off the robes he was wearing then. 

His mother lay with chilling stillness on the couch. It was the motionlessness that told Draco what he fought so hard to disagree with, that Narcissa Malfoy was no longer alive. She had always been restless, never sitting quietly, always fidgeting or playing with something in her hands, flitting from room to room in the Manor. She had liked creating things while she talked; sitting at her easel painting, perhaps, maybe sewing, or embroidering one of the many gowns she owned. 

Inexplicable serenity settled over Draco as he crossed the room to Narcissa. Her blue eyes were wide and staring, expressionless, set in a mask of excruciating pain and pallid whiteness. Her hair was spread out like a golden sunburst, a perverse halo atop an angel of death. He touched her cheek, felt the iciness and knew for certain that Narcissa Malfoy—the only person in the world who still treated him like who he really was—was dead. 

"She died for you." 

He flinched at every unconcerned word, but gathered himself and kissed Narcissa's pale brow and drew his hand over the blankly gazing eyes, closing them forever, and then conjured a lavender blanket—her favorite scent and color—to drape over her body. Draco refused to look at the missing chunks that had been gouged out of her body. 

"You," he said calmly, wheeling around to face his father, "had no right to do that." 

"I have the right to do what I want," Lucius said. The draperies at the floor-to-ceiling windows had been thrown apart, revealing vivid midafternoon sunlight, and he was standing at them, looking out at the vast expanse of land the Malfoys owned. The sunbeams lightened his hair from pale gold to a shade that was only a bit off from Draco's silver. The gray eyes flicked from their inspection of the grounds to Draco, and in that moment, the boy was all too aware how much he resembled his father. 

"She fought hard. It took me a long time to subdue her… to silence her." 

Draco didn't move, didn't speak, stoutly refusing to acknowledge the existence of the murderer that spoke so casually of his wife's death. His eyes never faltered, locking onto Lucius's own. 

"Are you thinking about my death, boy?" 

"Yes. And how I would bring it about." 

Lucius laughed dryly, black humor taking hold of him momentarily. He turned away from the windows and swept towards Draco, outstretched hand taking the Slytherin's chin and tilting it up harshly. "You are truly your father's son," he said with a rueful smile. "But if you choose to avenge your mother, you will be finding more than my death… have you ever thought about yours?" 

~*~ 

Hermione's parents had died the same way, one night after she returned from her Muggle friend Jodie's house. She never found the murderer, much less confronted him, and the worst thing was, she never had time to mourn—or even attend their funeral! She poured all energies into the war, Hermione continued, her voice faltering slightly. Her mother had been pregnant; there had been only two months left before there would be a new baby brother. Draco had spoken to comment, to comfort awkwardly, to share a bit about Narcissa, but mostly he was listening. She wasn't sure if she'd sobbed fitfully or didn't shed a single tear, but she did remember talking herself to sleep. 

And as the occupants of that carriage slept, an owl thrust its beak through the opening they had left in the window. It was completely out of the ordinary—massive, fierce, lushly green-eyed and feral-looking, with sleek steel feathers and claws that glinted even in the watery moonlight. 

The owl stepped neatly to Hermione, avoiding Ron's crumpled form, and hoisted up a leg to let the rolled-up note fall onto her splayed robes. The note seemed to be made of a thick, expensive, creamy sort of parchment, and twined around it was a slender Irish-green ribbon. 

As soon as the owl deposited the letter, its once-green eyes gleamed a shocking golden as if a spell was being lifted. Screaming, in a flurry of feathers and talons, it raked claws against the glass pane, shattering it, spraying jagged glass shards onto the fertile green fields flickering past. The owl lurched unsteadily out the window, giving a primal, untamed howl, and dropped a few feet before rising urgently into the air, as if propelled by terror of an unknown magic which had it in its control. 

Its entire arrival and departure was deathly silent, as if its passage was masked by magic. 

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***passes out random chocolates to reviewers* Arigatou to... **

Mari -- *gets kicked in the bum* Since I couldn't spew out 11 pages of work in an instant... guess I deserved that... BUT NO MORE HERSHEY'S KISSES FOR YOU, MISSY! =P Seriously, girl, thanks for the review. 

**Vadblakin' Kow [aka G3]** -- It's really flattering for such a review from an RL friend... thankies! *hugs* 

**Felicity** -- *laughs* More for you here =) 

**Tenebrae [aka Nicole]** -- Yeash Nic, the concept of it, although I certainly had many inspirations from other works, music, and of course friends... ;) I created the Shades of my own accord, yet look out for the OC characters that will be coming up... their names all have references to Greek myths and legends and even moons from other planets, lol. ^^ You can't say I didn't do my research on this one! Anyway, dearie, excuse my rambling; thank you for your review! *huggles* *picks up the eyes and passes them back to Nic* 

**Cous-cous** -- I'm afraid I might not have explanations that soon yet, but they will unfold as the story goes on... that is if my muse permits me to. *stares at muse threateningly* At any rate, thank you for reading! =) 

**Spazy-Sange** -- EEEKS! *runs away from Spazy and burrows in the Shadows of Lurk* I updated! Now keep those chains! =P Thanks for your review. 

So! If you've found your way down here I assume you've read the story? Ergo, review! *brandishes half-eaten marshmellow scythe* 

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